


Inflamed

by second_skin



Series: Five Times Mycroft and Lestrade Had Awkward Sex [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, First Time, Humor, It's Best to Avoid Reading Urban Dictionary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For an anon prompt on the kink meme: 5 +1 Awkward Mystrade Sex.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inflamed

Mycroft had hoped his first sexual encounter with Greg Lestrade would involve an elegant, well-crafted seduction. Candlelight. Sweaty satin sheets. Morning cuddles. Once Greg’s divorce was finalized and they’d got round to admitting their mutual attraction and setting a time and place for a date, Mycroft was beside himself with anticipation.

 

He’d researched Greg’s tastes and preferences. He’d stockpiled beer, crisps, blueberry muffins, and Sumatran blend coffee so that he’d be ready for Greg to spend the night on a moment’s notice.

 

He’d taken a crash course on football terminology on the Internet and watched three full series of _Top Gear_. He knew Greg’s favourite pasta, music, and films. He knew his shoe size and the locations of and stories behind each scar and broken bone in his medical history. He knew the man’s preferred brand of condoms, lubricants, and toothpaste.

 

Mycroft had been thorough. More than thorough. Because his passion for Greg Lestrade had been simmering for years and was now quite honestly to the point of boiling over, Mycroft had been obsessive in making sure he knew the object of his affection intimately, long before they _actually_ knew each other intimately.

 

This was why Mycroft was blindsided by the unmitigated horror of his first attempt to have sex with Greg Lestrade. The _Titanic_ was an afternoon of punting and picnicking compared to this disaster.

 

He was just so sure he’d heard the surveillance tapes correctly. He’d been listening to Greg’s private conversations with friends and colleagues for months, as one does when courting a new beau. He was looking for more revealing details about the D. I., when he’d heard him mention something completely unfamiliar that required more investigation.

Mycroft immediately looked up the word in the Urban Dictionary. And then asked about it anonymously on three different fetish web sites, so that he understood the concept from every angle. He located Victorian-era illustrations and studied them. He watched a poorly produced film on LubeTube and reminded himself that anything between consenting adults was absolutely fine. Even if the lighting was atrocious and the music was Michael Bolton.

It was all fine, if this was what made Greg happy.

 

Mycroft Holmes was certainly not a prude. He’d had sex with the lights on. Twice! And he’d been known to bring whipped cream and truffles into his bed—usually when he was alone and  feeling blue, but still--that counted as kinky, didn't it? And Greg's peculiar kink was not so different, was it?

 

_How could he have got it all so wrong?_

 

“Christ on a cupcake, Mycroft—what the bloody fucking hell are you doing?”

 

Greg had leaped from Mycroft’s bed, delicious thick cock bobbing wildly and a look of sheer terror in his beautiful brown eyes. Mycroft was delighted to get such a good long look at that magnificent naked body, but his delight turned to distress and fear as he saw Greg turn to race into the bathroom, buttocks clenched, skin turning a splotchy red, and trickles of sweat rolling down between his gorgeous shoulder blades.

 

Mycroft stammered  and squeaked. “But . . . I thought you . . . I'm so sorry, Greg. I –I really am. It’s not something I . . . Good heavens,  I usually wouldn’t . . . oh _bother_ . . . Pease forgive me. Is there anything I can do?”

 

Mycroft heard the splashing of water and small, high yips of pain and frustration from behind the bathroom door. He considered calling Anthea for advice, but was sure that would land him in even more trouble with Greg.

 

“Crikey, Mycroft—it’s stuck, and I . . . Fuck!. . . What were you . . . ouch . . .ouch . . . Jesus, the burning! The burning! Do you have any tweezers in here? Godammit!”

 

Mycroft was mortified. His own erection disappeared as he put on his dressing gown and located a pair of tweezers in a first-aid kit in the kitchen. He knocked gently on the bathroom door, and used his softest, most soothing voice. “Gregory, I think you’ll probably need some assistance? May I come in?”

 

He heard an anguished whine—the sound of a desperate, wounded animal--and then a grunt, “Yeah, yeah—I can’t do it myself. Bollocks and damn it all! Come in here and help me, Mycroft.”

 

This was, Mycroft was sure, the most embarrassing and awkward first date in the history of first dates in all the nations of the Commonwealth. Even New Zealand.

He was sure the relationship was over before it had really begun. He was sure Greg would never agree to a second date. He would probably never look Mycroft in the eyes again.

 

Mycroft tried to tell himself that at least they’d had a few glorious kisses, and a magnificent bit of foreplay before the disaster. At least his years-long wish to fondle a naked Greg Lestrade had come true.

 

And now, as he spread the pale, soft cheeks of Greg’s arse apart and held a small torch between his teeth to better see the object lodged exactly where he had hoped his own slick cock might one day be lodged—Mycroft tried not to weep in shame and despair.

 

“There. Got it.” Mycroft pulled the finger-shaped ginger root from Greg’s arsehole, gently dabbed at the red, inflamed opening with a bit of antseptic cream and patted the D.I.’s bottom tenderly—resisting the urge to press his lips there too. Then he left the D.I. to dress and gather what was left of his dignity.

 

Mycroft was right--Greg seemed unable to look his host in the eye as he made his way towards the foyer, and mumbled something about needing to get home to finish some paperwork.

 

Mycroft wiped away a stray tear and nodded, hoping this would not be the last time he’d ever speak to dear Greg Lestrade, but fearing that it would be the last time he’d touch his most private of parts.

 

Greg blushed bright crimson as he opened the front door, but then paused and took a deep breath before turning to Mycroft with an endearing grin.

 

“We’ll try again next week, right, Mycroft? Should be recovered by then, I’d reckon—the allergy’s not too extreme. But next time, we’ll avoid any foreign objects without discussing them first? I really don’t want my cock smeared in wasabi, for example.” Greg winked and touched Mycroft’s blushing cheek. “I don’t need anything kinkier than you and that bloody umbrella. Okay?”

 

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically, not trusting himself to speak.

 

“And eventually—when I can stand the thought of it, you’ll explain what the hell was going on in that weird mind of yours?”

 

Mycroft nodded again, and breathed a sigh of relief as Greg offered a quick peck and took his leave--limping ever so slightly.

 

Back in his office after a much-needed wank, Mycroft reviewed the old surveillance tapes again, and this time, the crackle and pop and buzz of the audio made it abundantly clear that there were syllables and whole sentences missing throughout the discussion Lestrade was having with Dimmock about one of the D.I.’s great passions.

 

Mycroft held his head in his hands as he shook with laughter. “Not figging!!  It’s not figging he can’t get enough of! It’s not figging that makes life worth living!” cried Mycroft with relief. “It’s fig pudding!”

 

Mycroft immediately placed an order for two pints of fig pudding. One for his own fridge and one to be delivered to Greg’s flat first thing in the morning.

And then he giddily began planning for their second date.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> _From Urban Dictionary:  
> [Figging: A sexual practice involving the insertion of a prepared "finger" of ginger root into the anus. This practice dates all the way back to the Victorian era.](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=figging)_


End file.
